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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23393641">falling in at night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/pseuds/Roccolinde'>Roccolinde</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>where you used to be [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, JB Monthly Madness, Modern AU, Mutual Pining</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 16:14:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,483</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23393641</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/pseuds/Roccolinde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>At a bar in the Riverlands, Brienne's path crosses with the man she's spent two years trying to forget.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>where you used to be [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1746907</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>203</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>J/B Monthly Madness: March 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Brienne</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I saw this prompt on a list--<i>cop!au i’ve been undercover for months/years and i know i told you not to wait for me but i’m still in love with you and it’s killing me</i>--and my brain went "Okay, what if it's the red tent scene, only they are cops who cross paths in their investigations while one of them is still undercover." THIS IDEA IS FUCKING GENIUS, okay? Genius. The execution... well, nobody else was likely to write this specific AU so it exists at least. That's not nothing. And it works for the Mutual Pining prompt for the JB Monthly Madness challenge, so #winning</p><p>Immense thank yous to Luthien, Kirazi, sdwolfpup, languageintostillair, ImberReader and whoever else I've whinged at and forgotten, for their roles in making this fic exist, from reading to bouncing ideas to head pats while I'm stropping. (Yes, this is why being friends with me is GREAT. I'll come up with an idea and if you happen to be within 500 metres you will get "I AM A GENIUS! I AM A FOOL!" blasted at you. 😂)</p><p>Title comes from an Edna St Vincent Millay quote: “Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.” Does it match the tone of the fic? Nope. But after an hour of trying to find something that (1) matched the tone, (2) made sense, and (3) didn't make me think of a completely unrelated fic, I just gave up and resigned myself to "None of the criteria is met, but I like it and wanted an excuse for a quote from this author for aaaages."</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Can I buy you a drink?” </p>
<p>She knew the rich burl of the voice against her ear, recognised the presence behind her, even over the pub’s too-loud music and the unfamiliar cologne that filled her nostrils. Even with the two years since she’d seen him last. It was a testament to her professional skill that Brienne did not flinch away, merely spun on the stool and took him in.</p>
<p>    He was still—</p>
<p>    “Vodka,” she said. </p>
<p>    Jaime nodded to the bartender, motioned for two more of the drink in front of Brienne—vodka tonics, which had never been Brienne’s drink of choice—and sat beside her. </p>
<p>His hair had darkened; less time in the sun, perhaps. There was a scar on his cheek that hadn’t been there when she’d left, a thin white mark that gave him <em>personality</em>. More worry lines. Not a single one of them kept him from being the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. Seven hells. </p>
<p>    “I’m Jaime,” he said once the drinks had arrived, flashing her the easy smile he used to charm people. Never her though, who’d been subjected to sardonic smirks at the Academy and then, later, the rare and honest joy that started in the corner of his eyes; it was somehow both better and worse.</p>
<p>    “Jeyne,” she replied, pushing a dark lock out of her eyes. What the everloving fuck was he doing here? And more pressingly, why was he <em>here</em>, beside her, looking at her with a casual sort of interest that she knew was more? It had been many things—loathing, respect, affection—but it had never been casual, not once. </p>
<p>    Another smile, devoid of any true emotion; he’d always been good at this game. “Do you come here often, Jeyne?”</p>
<p>    “Often enough to know you don’t,” she said, arching an eyebrow in question; there was a split second of honest amusement on his face, quickly stifled.</p>
<p>    “New in town,” he shrugged. “A friend said Red’s was a good place for cheap drinks and no questions.”</p>
<p>    “And yet here you are, asking questions,” Brienne said dryly, raising her drink to her lips. </p>
<p>    “What can I say, you make me daring.”</p>
<p>    He leaned forward, his hand making its way to her thigh. <em>Fuck</em>. She’d spent… too many nights, alone in her shitty little one-room apartment thinking of his hands. His lips. The precise timbre of his voice. </p>
<p>    “I don’t go home with strangers,” she said, removing his hand with a forefinger and thumb; even that minimal touch sent electricity through her, sparked memories better left alone. “And I’m waiting for someone.”</p>
<p><em>A lead</em>. Thank the Seven that they’d always been good at understanding each other, in moments like this; he pulled his hand from her grip and picked up his own drink, raising it in a silent toast. </p>
<p>“Do you mind company?” he asked. <em>Can I safely stay?</em></p>
<p>“It’s a free country,” Brienne replied. <em>I’m not saying no.</em></p>
<p>Jaime nodded, turned to rest his elbow on the bar. They chatted, shallow flirtations she would not remember in the morning; her attention was focused on the door, hoping her lead would arrive, and focused on Jaime, all the things he did not say and all the ways he had changed. All the ways he had stayed the same. Secreted away all those little glimpses of the man she knew that leaked around the corners of his mask, told herself that it was just the familiarity she craved, the connection to a past she could not think of. </p>
<p>Two carefully nursed drinks later and well past the time she’d expected him to arrive, there was still no sign of the Blackfish, and the rote flirtations had… escalated. A bitten lip, a brushed elbow, every movement so steadfastly <em>not </em>how they’d been together that her skin burnt with the memories all the same. When he stood and made a faux-drunken stumble towards the narrow hall that led to the toilets, she waited only a minute to follow him. </p>
<p>    The toilets were single use, dimly lit, and barely clean. Jaime had left the door ajar, just wide enough for Brienne to slip inside, and the moment she was through the door was kicked shut and his body moved towards her. </p>
<p>    “Jaime…”</p>
<p>    He was near-flush against her, pressing her against the door, his fingers on her hips, rising on the balls of his feet to lean in to speak against her ear. “Hello, Brienne.”</p>
<p>    She fought the urge to cry. Nobody had called her that in… 18 months. Her handler called her Jeyne, or Tarth if he was feeling kind. She’d been allowed one phone call, early on; her fingers had hesitated, tempted to punch in Jaime’s number even after they’d left it… She’d called her father instead, locked the sound of his voice calling her by her name deep in her heart, only to be brought out in the most dire of circumstances. </p>
<p>    “What the fuck are you doing here?” she whispered.</p>
<p>    He scoffed, harsh and bright and golden, and his lips twisted into a wry smile. “My job, same as you. I didn’t even know you were in the Riverlands, nevermind... I thought I was seeing a ghost for a moment, but you’re too damn stubborn to die.”</p>
<p>    From anyone else, it would sound like a condemnation. He was so close, close enough that she could catch the scent of sweat beneath his heavy cologne, feel the heat radiating off him; she needed to push him away, make space between them, but she tilted her head back, exposed her throat so he could come closer. His breath tickled her neck, pebbled her nipples against the cheap cotton of her bra. </p>
<p>“How’s the case?”</p>
<p>    She shouldn’t—shouldn’t tell him, shouldn’t be here—but… they’d been investigating it together, in the beginning, their antagonistic quarrelling shifting into something more; by the time she’d had to leave, they had spent most of their nights together. He deserved to know, that it hadn’t been in vain, that she hadn’t... .</p>
<p>    “I found Sansa Stark.”</p>
<p>    “Alive?”</p>
<p>    Brienne nodded. “She’s tough. She got out, but… there are other girls. I couldn’t—”</p>
<p>He fell back slightly, gave her a strained smile and a rueful shake of his head. He had no business being so… <em>this</em> in a dingy bar toilet. “No, you couldn’t,” he said. “You wouldn’t be you if you could.”</p>
<p>His arm swayed towards her, his knuckles grazing against the inside of her wrist, and her composure faltered. She staggered forward, nearly colliding with his chest, pulled herself up just short. </p>
<p>“I shouldn’t—I have to go.”</p>
<p>He looked at his watch, his brow furrowing. “Anybody watching will think we’re fucking in here. Give it another five minutes, more if you can stand it, and make sure you’re rumpled when you leave.”</p>
<p>It was a valid point, but the urge to flee was rising. Away from the bar, away from him, away from the life she’d almost had, before her boss had come to her, offered the assignment, said Sansa’s name. </p>
<p>“I’m surprised you aren’t suggesting we actually fuck,” she said; it was crude, but she had to say <em>something, </em>something other than the foolish <em>I miss you, I love you, Jaime I am so glad to see you even if it’s like this</em> that she dared not voice. </p>
<p>    “No,” Jaime said, with no such qualms. “Not here, like this. When you get home…”</p>
<p>    Brienne winced. Living for that <em>when </em>could kill you, undercover. It couldn’t be an option; no <em>after</em> could be. She might be home in a week, a month, never. </p>
<p>    “Jaime,” she said. “I told you not to wait. I can’t…”</p>
<p>    She’d tried, so hard, to forget him. To file away their time together as beautiful but fleeting. And now he stood in front of her, two years later, with a look of such gentle, familiar amusement that her chest <em>ached</em>. </p>
<p>    “I told you I would,” he replied. “You don’t think I’m a man of my word?”</p>
<p>    She couldn’t help herself—she reached up, traced his brow, his cheek, the sharp line of his jaw. Leaned down to press her forehead against his, felt their breath mingling in the tiny space between them. It would be so easy to move, to brush their mouths, part their lips; it would be so easy and she <em>couldn’t</em>, she absolutely <em>couldn’t</em>, and so she stayed still, allowed this one silent moment to be enough. Eventually, Brienne swallowed and stepped back, finding herself against the door once more; they’d clasped hands at some point, though she hadn’t noticed when, and his thumb was brushing against her knuckles. </p>
<p>    “Jaime,” she said softly, her answer of <em>Of course I know you are, but I can’t—I can’t do my job if I’m living for an impossible dream</em> dying on her lips. She squeezed his fingers once instead, allowed their hands to slide apart before walking to the sink, splashing some water on her face and running her hands through her hair. Rumpled her clothes. Studied herself in the mirror—even after two years the reflection was still unfamiliar, the dark hair and glasses somehow enough to give her some anonymity. </p>
<p>    “It helps if you pinch your cheeks,” he said; she shifted her focus to meet his eyes in the mirror; he was smiling, <em>her</em> smile. </p>
<p>    She did, and moved towards the door; he snagged her arm as she passed, tugged her in close.</p>
<p>    “I don’t know who you’re looking for here, or why,” he said quietly. “But there’s going to be a raid. Saturday night. Don’t be here.”</p>
<p>    “That’s why you’re…?”</p>
<p>    “Yes.”</p>
<p>    For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. </p>
<p>    “Thank you,” she finally said, and he gave an exasperated sigh.</p>
<p>    “There’s absolutely no chance you’ll stay away, is there?” </p>
<p>    Of course he knew, he’d do the same. She shook her head. </p>
<p>    “Hopefully I’ll make contact before,” she said. “But if it comes down to it, I’m duty-bound to come so long as there’s a chance.”</p>
<p>    He gave her a small smile. “Then let’s hope it won’t come to that.”</p>
<p>    Her chin wobbled, a tell she knew he knew all too well, and nodded stiffly. She could swear she felt his gaze on her back long after she’d left the toilets, the bar. Long after she was safe behind the locked door of her cheap motel room, staring at the water stains on the ceiling. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Jaime</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Second verse, same as the first...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A dive bar in the Riverlands was not how Jaime had intended to spend his Wednesday evening, but such was the nature of the job. He grabbed a cheap beer at the bar and found a booth—not in the corner, which would be too conspicuous, but enough out of the way that he could observe more than be observed. It was a quiet night, a handful of patrons seated throughout the small room, and when a woman emerged from the back corridor—the toilets, he presumed, though he’d have to check—he told himself it was professional diligence to watch her as she slipped onto a stool, all long legs and broad shoulders hunched into themselves. As she tapped a finger on the heavily pitted bar, her attention focused on the door to Red’s. Swiped her thumb over the condensation on her glass, then dried it against her jeans absently. Checked her phone. Bounced her leg in time to the music blasting from the radio behind the bar. Professional diligence, and not— </p><p>She turned slightly, revealing her profile, and for a heartbeat, two, he wondered if he’d ever stop seeing her in a stranger’s face. He wouldn’t be able to pinpoint, later, what made him realise that this time it was truly her, but on the third beat he rose from his booth to make his way towards the bar, not knowing what he was going to say, whether it was wise—his feet propelled him forward, his traitorous bastard heart flying ahead of him. </p><p><em>Brienne</em>.</p><p>He had to warn her. </p><p>He was only a step away when he asked, “Can I buy you a drink?” </p><p>She spun on her stool, raked him once over with her eyes, and then said “Vodka,” as if she’d found him lacking. He motioned to the bartender, took a seat, looked at her from the corner of his eye. Her hair was dark, and longer than she preferred, and she wore makeup—something to cover her freckles, a dark red lipstick, painted nails. Her lashes and brows were tinted a harsh brown, a far cry from the translucent beauty that could catch the morning sun and make her glow. </p><p>    “I’m Jaime,” he said once the drinks had arrived. Smiled, casually. Trusted her to play along. </p><p>    “Jeyne,” she replied.</p><p>“Do you come here often, Jeyne?”</p><p>    “Often enough to know you don’t,” she said, arching an eyebrow in question, and for a moment they were back home, quibbling over absolutely nothing, and not… here, two years later.</p><p>“New in town,” he shrugged. “A friend said Red’s was a good place for cheap drinks and no questions.”</p><p>    “And yet here you are, asking questions.” </p><p>    “What can I say,” he purred, leaning forward to place his palm on her thigh, muscled and warm and achingly close, “you make me daring.”</p><p>    She made him fucking stupid, was what she made him. But he needed to warn her.  She removed his hand, made a comment about waiting for someone. He pulled back, picked up his drink and raised it in a toast. </p><p>“Do you mind company?” he asked. </p><p>“It’s a free country.”</p><p>Jaime nodded, turned to rest his elbow on the bar. Studied her. The lipstick had caught on the edge of the scar on her lip, highlighting the dip he had traced his tongue along too many times to count; he wondered what it would be like to kiss her now, the cheap waxiness of drugstore lipstick instead of her usual unflavoured balm. Flirted with deliberate casualness, nothing personal, nothing known. Didn’t stroke a thumb across her knuckles, didn’t murmur in-jokes that made her bray like a donkey. Didn’t think of lifting her onto the bar over her laughing protests, slipping between her thighs, didn’t think of the mornings he had done so on the kitchen island of his apartment. Didn’t notice the way she absently toyed with the silver chain around her neck—he knew if he followed it down, down beneath the neck of her t-shirt he’d find a tacky seven-pointed star pendant at its end, cheap blue stones at every point, purchased from a department store catalogue; he’d cringed as he’d bought it, but it had been something to carry with her, something that didn’t mark her <em>Brienne</em>. He didn’t think of the freckles that covered her breasts or the way she would sigh when he swept his tongue over them. It was just the job—he had to warn her without exposing either of them, for the integrity of their investigations. </p><p>He had to get her alone.</p><p>Finishing his second drink, he rose from his stool and made his way towards the back corridor and suspected toilets—it was shorter than he would have thought, with a single room at the end. He slipped inside, noted the window was too high for people to come in or out, and waited. </p><p>    He didn’t have to wait long; footsteps came from the hall and then her familiar frame slid into the room; he moved, kicking the door shut. Pushed her up against the door and his hands fell to her hips, fingertips pressing against the denim of her jeans; her lips parted, her pupils widened until only a thin sliver of her familiar blue was visible. He rose on the balls of his feet, allowed himself to speak a greeting against the shell of her ear, rolled her name against his tongue. Tried not to think of catching her lobe between his teeth, nibbling it until she moaned. Slide to his knees in this tacky barroom toilet, push her jeans down, kiss her through what he was certain was eminently sensible cotton panties. He had to warn her, but it was easy to lose himself in the memories, the could-bes, the bloody-well-will-bes. </p><p>    Brienne, of course, had no such difficulties.     </p><p>“What the fuck are you doing here?” she whispered harshly, that perturbed little frown she wore so often around him softening the insult.</p><p>    He scoffed, unsurprised; he was ready to risk his damn investigation to look out for her and she wouldn’t see it. Two years hadn’t changed that much, at least. </p><p>“My job,” he said, “same as you. I didn’t even know you were in the Riverlands, nevermind... I thought I was seeing a ghost for a moment, but you’re too damn stubborn to die.” <em>Thank the gods. </em>He moved closer, his lips nearly brushing her neck as he asked, “How’s the case?”</p><p>    He could <em>see </em>her weighing up the options, whether to tell him or not, whether to flee into the night. Tightening his grasp of her hips, he stepped closer still, until he could feel the heat of her body against his, so fucking familiar that he almost didn’t hear her reply. </p><p>    “I found Sansa Stark.”</p><p>    That <em>was</em> a surprise. He knew the numbers as well as anyone, knew the case. Not even Brienne’s sheer bloodymindedness had been likely to tip the scales. </p><p>“Alive?”</p><p>    Brienne nodded. “She’s tough. She got out, but… there are other girls. I couldn’t—”</p><p>He fell back slightly, shook his head. </p><p>“No, you couldn’t,” he said. “You wouldn’t be you if you could.”</p><p>He shouldn’t—shouldn’t touch her, not here, where nobody could see, but his arm swayed and his knuckles grazed against her wrist; she jerked, pulled herself upright.</p><p>“I shouldn’t—I have to go.”</p><p>He looked at his watch, more to look away from her eyes than anything, not ready for the chastisement he deserved. “Anybody watching will think we’re fucking in here. Give it another five minutes, more if you can stand it, and make sure you’re rumpled when you leave.”</p><p>“I’m surprised you aren’t suggesting we actually fuck,” she said, and he looked up sharply. </p><p>“No,” he said. “Not here, like this. When you get home…”</p><p>When she got home, he’d fuck her, be fucked, in every room. Twice. His cock was hard at the thought. </p><p>    “Jaime,” she said, her eyes wide and startled. “I told you not to wait. I can’t…”</p><p>    And gods, the thing about Brienne, even this version of Brienne, was that he could <em>breathe</em> around her, even when she… He’d forgotten, over time, where the tightness in him had come from, that dissatisfying sense of restriction. Grown used to it. And now he could breathe again, and...</p><p>    “I told you I would,” he replied. “You don’t think I’m a man of my word?”</p><p>    Her hands shook as she reached out, traced the lines of his face, down to his throat, as she pressed her forehead against his. He could kiss her like this, tilt his chin up and close the distance, breathe her in for however long they had. He waited instead, let it be enough—forehead to forehead, noses bumping as they swayed, hands entwined, thumb stroking her knuckles. </p><p>Eventually, Brienne swallowed and stepped back, looked at him so tenderly. “Jaime…”</p><p>There was nothing to be said.</p><p>She squeezed his fingers, her hold slipping away as she walked towards the sink. Jaime watched her bring life to the lie of what they were doing, was filled with such an inordinate <em>fondness</em>. </p><p>    “It helps if you pinch your cheeks,” he said, knowing it would not do justice to her post-coital flush; she met his eyes in the mirror and they shared a small smile. </p><p>    When she was done, she moved towards the door—he had to warn her. He reached out as she passed, the muscles of her arm flexing even as she stopped, turned to look at him with curiosity. </p><p>    “I don’t know who you’re looking for here, or why,” he said quietly. “But there’s going to be a raid. Saturday night. Don’t be here.”</p><p>    She nodded, so slightly she didn't seem aware she was doing it. “That’s why you’re…?”</p><p>    “Yes.”</p><p>    They stared at each other for a long moment, his hand on her arm and a gulf between them. </p><p>    “Thank you,” she said eventually. </p><p>Jaime sighed.     “There’s absolutely no chance you’ll stay away, is there?” </p><p>    She shook her head.  “Hopefully I’ll make contact before. But if it comes down to it, I’m duty-bound to come so long as there’s a chance.”</p><p>    Of course. Maddening, glorious woman. He smiled despite himself. “Then let’s hope it won’t come to that.”</p><p>    She inclined her head, her chin trembling with bitten-back emotion, and then she was gone, the toilet door swinging shut behind her. Jaime stared at it long after she was gone, then washed his hands and headed back into the bar. </p>
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